


Desperate Times

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Garage Tapes [2]
Category: Gotham City Garage (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Mentions of prior death, NOW WITH PART TWO, Violently Overprotective Bodyguards, it's Jason he got better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-05-14 21:18:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14777409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: Dick’s on his bike when Beret-Man asks, “Define reasonable distance, sir?”“Sniper’s discretion.”“You got it, boss.”Uh-oh.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is mostly me seeing what happens when Dick interacts with Jason's...people.
> 
> They don't like him. Though to be fair, it's like, midnight and he probably woke them up. I'd be grouchy, too. :p

Dick isn’t entirely expecting to roll into the compound and be set upon by a mountain.

No, really. He’s barely off his bike when he’s hefted up by the jacket collar courtesy of something that’s approximately twenty feet tall and ten feet wide and one ton of RAGE.

**“You broke the boss.”**

Uh. No?

“Actually, I dragged him outta there-”

The clamp on his jacket grows tighter, scarred knuckles brushing against his chin. He tries for his most winning smile and thinks it gets him absolutely nowhere.

“Look, buddy, I didn’t do what you think I did, but-”

The mountain grows. Dick’s fingers are juuuuuust inching towards his escrima sticks when there’s the cocking of a gun behind him. Aw, crap.

“I’ll only shoot you if you make me,” a voice says, and then, “Please. Please make me.”

The mountain grins. It’s honestly one of the most terrifying things Dick has ever seen.

The gun belongs to the guy Dick has dubbed Beret-Man. He doesn’t know his name, and he doesn’t care-all he knows is that Beret-Man probably knows where Jason is, and that’s great.

“I’m, uh, I need to see your boss.”

“No.”

“The boss is sleeping,” the mountain rumbles. “You wake him up, you die. Slowly. Painfully.” The fingers tighten even more. “So _shhhh._ ”

Where the hell does Jason find these people? Did they come preinstalled or something? ‘Achieve leadership, gain violently overprotective bodyguards’, that sorta thing?

Beret-Man rolls his neck and Dick weighs his chances of success if he kicks the gun upwards and moves to jam his fingers into the mountain’s eyes.

They don’t look good. And that’d make an awful lotta commotion.

This bites.

“Maybe he’s awake after all?”

Beret-Man shrugs.

“Don’t care. Look, man, we got two options here. One, you get back on your bike and ride away and come back in the daytime and maaaybe the boss’ll be up for visitors. Maybe. If you’re really, really lucky.” The rifle nudges against his ribs, cold as a dog’s nose. “Two, you do something stupid that gets you shot and we dump what’s left of you out in the middle of nowhere for the buzzards.” He gives Dick what looks kind of like a ‘disappointed teacher’ look. “Up ta.”

“Can’t I just wait here?”

“Whatcha got?”

Wow, he never thought he’d be even remotely happy to see Jason Todd. Beret-Man and the mountain look a little less pleased.

“Intruder, boss.”

“You look like shit, sir.”

“Thanks, Drouot. Thanks a lot.” He rubs the back of his head, palm flattening bedhead, and looks Dick up and down. “You can drop him, Ages.”

The mountain does exactly that. Dick hits the ground a little faster than he’d like. Jason sighs, fiddles with the hem of his shirt, and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Why are you here.”

“I can’t drop by to see my favorite…outlaw…biker…guy?”

Nobody looks impressed.

“Last time we were in close quarters, I got sliced open saving your sorry ass.”

“I fixed it! I dragged **your** sorry ass outta there!”

The mountain makes a noise reminiscent of a rumbling volcano. Beret-Man lifts his rifle again.

“It doesn’t have to be fatal, sir.”

“S’all right.” WHAT. “Whatcha want, pretty bird?”

“A favor?”

Jason raises an eyebrow, gestures to the outline of bandages on his stomach.

“And this wasn’t enough of one?”

“A safer favor, I swear.” Well. Maybe. Not really, but if it’ll ensure that the mountain and Beret-Man don’t murder him and dump his remains in the desert to become a corpse-raisin…he’s not above blatant lies.

“Suuure it is-”

“OI!”

Jason pales and inches behind Beret-Man, who looks very much as though he’s tempted to run off into the desert and become a hermit.

“Hide me.”

“You’re on your own, boss.”

“Come on-”

A man in a white robe is marching across the compound, finger in the air and lips drawn back in an enraged snarl. Dick is Very Confused.

“What’s going on? Go to bed, I said. Stay there unless your sheets are on fire, I said. Are your sheets on fire?”

“No…”

“Then what. Is. This.”

Jason points at Dick.

“Visitor.”

“You’re not up for visitors.”

“I’m not dying of tuberculosis!”

White Robe harrumphs and mutters, “Give it time.” Then he turns. Really looks at Dick. “You mother fucker.”

“Come on!”

Beret-Man cracks a grin and lowers his rifle. A little. Jason shakes his head and points towards one of the buildings.

“All right, c’mon, then. Everyone’s up and you’re here.”

Yes!

White Robe scowls but doesn’t argue. The mountain gives Dick a shove.

“Move.”

“You gonna be okay, boss?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“Mark’s right there, I could shoot his arm off and he probably wouldn’t die.”

Please don’t do that.

Jason snorts, grimaces and mumbles, “Laughing still hurts, please don’t.”

He starts moving, a little slower than usual. Jerky. Dick follows, hopes the guy doesn’t decided to drop dead or pass out or anything. He’s a spiteful bastard, it’s not at all out of the realm of possibility.

The building is an office, turns out-a weirdly normal office, with a laptop and rolly chairs and a candy bowl. Jason sinks into the chair behind the desk, head falling backwards, and closes his eyes.

“What do you want.”

“You really do look like shit,” he says, and that’s not what he meant to start with, but oh well.

“Side effect of near-death.” He shrugs, winces. “And actual death, for that matter.”

Dick’s just gonna ignore that potential minefield and get to the point.

“Luthor knows about the Garage.”

“Bummer.”

“They…we…need your help.”

“Uh-huh.”

Okay? What kind of answer is that? Yes, no, fuck off? A Magic-8 Ball would make more sense.

“Could be the end of the free world as we know it.”

“Wow, you’re dramatic.” Jason tips his head to the side, watching Dick through half-closed eyes. “The world ain’t free, pretty bird. You don’t get somethin’ for nothin’. **Ever.** An’ like I said earlier, last time I did you a favor, didn’t end so well for me.”

Yeah. Dick may not like the guy all that much, but he doubts he’ll get the mental picture of him just lying there, limp and bloody and whimpering in agony, out of his head any time soon.

“This isn’t.” He sighs, frustrated. “This isn’t just for me. So he wipes out the Garage, lucky you, until he sends the Bat after the Hoods instead. ‘Cause he will, you know he will.”

Jason grins, slow and easy, and rolls a stray drill bit back and forth across the desk.

**Rrrrr, rrrrr. Rrrrr, rrrrr.**

“Maybe,” he says, “maybe not. Tell ya what.” Oh, great. Time to make some unkeepable promises. “I’ll talk it over, get back to you.”

“Talk it over with who?”

He pulls a phone from his pocket, flips it open with shaky fingers.

“I’m upright because Jones plied me full’a painkillers. I don’t trust myself with big decisions right now.”

Really.

“You couldn’t have told me that earlier.”

“I didn’t know why you were here.” **Beep, beep, beep.** “For all I know, you came to proposition me.”

What an asshole.

“Todd, I wouldn’t proposition you if we were the last two people alive.”

Jason raises an eyebrow and closes his phone.

“You ride around the desert shirtless, Grayson. What are people supposed to think?”

“Fuck you.”

“Jones says no strenuous physical activity for the next six weeks. Sorry.”

Dick is going to strangle him. It’s happening. He is going to lock that door and vault over that giant fucking desk and **end him**.

The bastard’s smirking now, and Dick changes his mind. He’s not going to give him the satisfaction. (Or **any** satisfaction, thank you **very** much.)

“So you’ll think about it.”

“Not much left to the imagination, there.”

Maiming, though, is still on the table.

“You know what I meant.”

“We’ll see.” He flaps a hand towards the door. “Gotcha set up, Ages’ll, ah, show you where to go.”

Ages? The big mountain man? Come on!

“Great. Thanks.”

“So ungrateful.” He doesn’t sound particularly upset. “Play nice.”

Desperate times, he knows, but…damn if this doesn’t suck.

THE END


	2. That Could Have Gone Better

AN: Even if this is a Serious™ Piece and there are none to be found (today), _GCG_ makes more Dick Jokes than Shakespeare. Seriously, the writers take his name and break the sound barrier with it.

**Hey, I can’t have all the fun. I do know how to share, contrary to popular opinion. ;)**

Those enjoying this…series…thing…, there is a ficlet that may or may not ever be a FIC (still debating) over on my Tumblr!

* * *

“What do you mean, ‘maybe’?”

“‘Maybe’: late Middle English, from the phrase ‘it may be’, a possibility’,” Jason snarks. Dick resists the urge to bash his head against his own desk. “And today, the only answer you’re going to get.”

Breathe deeply. Murdering Jason Todd will result in Dick’s limbs and head being dumped back at the Garage, he just knows it. But oh, boy, is it tempting.

“Seriously.” Another deep breath. “They’ll be slaughtered if you don’t help. I mean, we may all be slaughtered anyway, but…you have to come.”

“I really don’t.”

“The fuck is wrong with you?” Dick demands, squeezing the edges of the desk and imagining it’s the smug bastard’s neck instead. “You talk a big game until it’s serious, then you chicken out? For—”

**BLAM!**

The bullet speeding past his head and digging into the wall scares the crap out of him. It also snaps his mouth shut. Okay. Point taken. He’s just gonna-

“You think I don’t know what Luthor’s capable of?” Jason says, voice very low and very flat. “I think I know a little better than you do.”

“Bullshit,” he says. He can’t help it. It’s what comes out, and it’s true. Jason turns his attention to the gun in his hand.

“No.” He sets the gun down with a heavy **thunk**. “I know damn well how serious this is.”

“Whoop-dee-dee, you rob the guy—”

“I fucking died!” Jason slams his hands against his desk, sending a screw spinning wildly off the edge. “I was a fucking fifteen-year-old kid, and he had me tortured to death to make a point! Don’t you dare accuse me if not knowing what he’s like, **Dick** , don’t you **fucking** dare!”

“What?” That’s impossible. “Come **on** —”

“You think I’m kidding?” He shoves his sleeves up and gestures to the scarred-over grooves in his wrists. “Y’know where these came from? From being **electrocuted** **while chained to a table**. That’s not what killed me, before you ask, but it still hurt.” He jerks the sleeves back down and picks up the picture on his desk, the weird one with his mom and the broken tombstone, and shoves it over. “That was mine. I woke up, dug my way out, and spent the next two weeks sick as hell.”

“That’s impossible.” Those are the only two words he can form. “That’s…”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He pulls in a heavy, shuddery breath and leans forward, sweaty bangs starting to unstick from his forehead. “You get a maybe. That’s it. Push it, and I attack you idiots myself. Now get out.”

“Jason—”

“I said, **get out!** ”

He opens the door, intending, now that he has somewhere to run to, to try one more time for a Yes. Unfortunately, Beret-Man spots him.

“You okay, sir?”

Jason, for a few seconds, is silent. Great. Great, he’s overdone it and fainted or something and now they’re all gonna come after him-no, no, he’s up. He’s up! He’s fine. He’s…

“If he’s not a reasonable distance away by the time you count to five, open fire.”

He’s an asshole. Time to go.

Dick’s on his bike when Beret-Man asks, “Define reasonable distance, sir?”

“Sniper’s discretion.”

“You got it, boss.”

Uh-oh.

He feels he is absolutely a reasonable distance away when a bullet rips through his back tire, sending him into a hard skid.

**Shit-shit-shit-**

Driving on a ruined tire isn’t easy, or recommended, but neither is getting shot in the head. He leans forward and risks shouting, “I’m going, you fucknuts!”

A bullet whizzes by his ear. Shutting up now.

THE END


End file.
